Solitude
by DiedInMarseilles
Summary: Superman. Godzilla. The Crimson Ghost. The End of Humanity.
1. I

Two pairs of broad shoulders advanced with the lengthening shadows of evening toward the rear of the Siegel Plastic Works factory on the Metropolis River. Their destination was a drainpipe, two feet from the river's restless surface, from which flowed a greenish liquid visible as small eddies in the water for as far as one could see. Having arrived, they stepped out into the golden light, turning their hat brims in every direction before addressing the shadows from which they emerged with a nod and an "all clear."

Two other figures then meet these. The first was short for a man, if it was a man—it was not possible to tell, for he was robbed head to foot in silkish fabric, blood-red in color, while his face, all but the intense eyes, were covered by a smiling, large-eyed mask—a skull. Following him, on his right, was a tall, angular man dressed similarly as the first two, though with pin-stripes on his suit instead, and an air of greater accomplishment.

"Proceed," said the amplified voice of the costumed villain.

The first two henchmen each produced—the first from his breast, the second from his trouser pocket—small lead containers which they turned with toward the pipe and its greenish tongue.

"Take care not to touch the samples," warned the villain, "the substance is radioactive."

The first thug paused, remembering the word from an article about the bomb someone read to him recently. The second was already kneeling, but, sensing his partner's hesitation, oscillated from demanding confirmation from his friend to begging his employer not to make him go through with it, and back again.

"Ash," said the Crimson Ghost, his voice a static-riddled screech, "collect the samples yourself, then dispose of these traitors—we'll have no further need for them."

Ash, who had his automatic drawn the moment he heard his name, collected the containers from the thugs who, with raised arms, were only too obliging to move away from the radioactivity. Ever faithful, however, Ash bent toward the waste. Seeing the unnatural liquid now up close caused something like fear to slow his motions—yet never did he pause.

Once he was close enough to reach out and take the sample, two red bolts came streaking through the air from over his shoulder, exploding the pipe, which in turn spat a thicker, greener form of waste covering Ash's face—his eyes stung, his nose was blocked, his mouth spit but couldn't be rid of the deadening plastic taste—before sinking, in one unsightly clump, into the river.

Ash fell forward, plunging his head into the flowing water.

All other eyes, however, turned toward the sky, spotting the wearer of a blue, red, and gold costume, the deliverer of the laser bolts, floating midair, his fists on his hips, descending leisurely.

"Superman!" said the thugs in a gasping unison before sprinting back the way they came. They made it no farther than a few feet before something in the shadows balked them. They starting moving backward, and starting to emerge from the darkness was Sergeant Steed.

"Johnny Crump and the Youngest," said the officer, flanked by two square-jawed, non-descript uniformed cops, who took the burdens Steed passed to them, "I should have known you two were taken up with the Ghost. Get them out of here."

"Yes, sir," said the cops, disappearing.

Superman called down, just before making contact with the ground: "Nice work, Sergeant. That's two down, two more to go."

"Aye," said Steed with glee.

"And make sure those people stay back," continued Superman who could hear the anxious voices of onlookers and fans wanting to witness the dispensing of justice.

The Crimson Ghost had adverted his face at the first sign of the superhero. He remained with his shoulders slumped and his back toward Superman, even as the hero was mere feet away. Now, though, the Crimson Ghost twisted around dexterously, his right arm flung out, his hand holding what looked like a gun, a homemade device apparently, with a conned barrel akin to a musket and, in lieu of an ammunition clip, the same small beaker-shaped container now lain beside Ash's convulsing body.

Superman did not so much as flinch, although the irregular mold of the weapon worried him. He threw back his shoulders as the Crimson Ghost let a green laser fly, one which ricocheted off the famous S emblem and caught the villain full in the face. The laser melted away the foam rubber skull and the flesh beneath that, so what shown through where both had been was wet, wet, red-streaked bone.

A cheering roar erupted before the Crimson Ghost's body was still. Like a frightened animal or perhaps an offended king, Superman looked to the crowd Sergeant Steed had brought right into the heat of the arrests, the sergeant himself smiling amongst the chorus.

"One left," he said, laughing.

Ash, by this time, had raised himself unto his side, where he lied panting but exhibiting self-possession. The uniformed cops were deployed. They collected their quarry easily, the quarry not resisting in the least. As he reached a position close to Superman, however, he lunged, swiping the pistol from one of the cops' belts. Ash leveled the barrel at Superman—the cops leveled theirs at Ash.

This standoff lasted all of a few seconds. When he saw that no one was too eager to be involved in a shoot-out, Superman waved the cops back with a slight, commanding gesture.

"You're the _hero_, huh?" said Ash. "Well, you're no hero to me, pal. I got plenty of heroes, though—and if you want to know their names, just read the list of those guys that went overseas defending this country who ain't never coming back. Those are _my _ heroes! What have _you_ done? Huh? Took out a couple of tanks? Maybe killed a Jerry or two when they camera's were rolling? You could have ended the War _long_ before we went over there. You could have saved us all a lot of grief, but did you? No! You let us die! But now, _now_ Superman is vigilant again. Yeah, a guy can't even make a living without you butting in. You've made the world, what it is. I hope you're happy living in it. Cause I ain't—" He brought the pistol to his temple and fired. His lifeless body fell with a smack upon the mattress of sprayed blood and brains.

The whirring sound of rolling newsreel cameras and the explosions of flashbulb were added to the joyful din as the jubilant crowd once more erupted.


	2. II

The grey Antarctic sky met the vast track of hillless land which, together, made the impression of stillness. Stillness, however, was unknown to the occupant of the only towering structure in any direction. Even as he sat, his legs tucked beneath him, amongst his Fortress of Solitude's imperial pillars of ice, Superman might have exhibited stillness, but he felt nothing like it.

His head was filled with Ash's words which, no matter how many times he recalled them, perplexed him—in fact, they continually increased his perplexity. He wanted to settle all his uneasiness and state, simply, that mankind could not be understood. There was nothing to fully grasp about these intelligent, imaginative animals, these always-crying animals who were outraged with even the thought of their own death or the death of their loved ones—while their very existence feasted death: it was what they ate, it was the prize of their war-games, it was what they sought through their greed, and what they were entertained with in their news—yet they were always agonized by it. He wanted to leave it at that—but he could not go on living with man if he were to go on letting the race evade his comprehension.

At first his presence among men was one which garnered respect. Although he did not know much about the overly complex character of man then—he felt he knew even less now, somehow—human beings looked to him for the hope their economically unstable culture could not supply. When the War came, however, his use in their eyes changed. They had expectations for him for the first time. He knew nothing of what was going on, which meant he felt nothing for either side—the very notion of war, nation, democracy, socialism, and every other politically-charged angle meant nothing to a superior being without a home planet. And yet, he was expected to do something about it? What could he have done, when sorting out the justified killing in honor's name from the tragedy of needless death that must be countered no matter the cost?

It came down to his inability to read differently those reveling in the death of villains and the toasts made over the growing pile of skulls outside the death-camps' ovens. They both disgusted him—even their human cries of pain and for justice disgusted him.

These were quickly becoming unbearable: the vocalized agony whenever the inevitability of death became a human fact; the cries of weaklings calling to their savior. Neither would not cease. They wore on Superman until he was unable to respond, even to move—as now.

Meanwhile, the blob of plastic-works' waste Superman created had made its journey from the Metropolis River to the ocean's floor, where even the many gallons of multidirectional water could not dissolve its mass. The blob fell, being moved along by a particularly strong current, between two lips of rock and into the shadow of a deep-sea crevice, seemingly disappearing. There was no immediate reaction. Then, suddenly, the two sides framing the crevice began to vibrate, moving slowly apart. The gap widened. From this yawning came first a light, white and intense, far more intense than any other light had been which touched such depths, then a heat which churned the waters, boiled fish alive, and vaporized all aquatic plant life. The disturbed ocean's surface became littered with the evidence of this carnage. But both carcasses and water parted as the rising head of a monster thrust itself into the night air, letting loose a primeval roar not heard on earth since before civilization's conceiving.

Such an otherworldly sound could not escape the keen ears of Superman—he heard it, of course, but it being, first, so unexpected and unnatural, and, secondly, the catalyst to more pathetic human cries, he did not feel it in the least. His stupor, in fact, grew in a positive correlation with the responses to the monster—from its first sea-born sightings, to its coming ashore, and finally its preliminary destruction. Yes, the more voices added to the din, the greater his inaction. Yet, one individual cry for help bridged the distance he put between mankind and himself, one distressed voice alone propelled him forward to be the hero he was expected to be—that of Lois Lane.


	3. III

The second the Metropolis skyline came into view during Superman's approach, he remarked a change. It looked as though a new skyscraper had been erected in the few hours—all too few!—he was away, one accentuated by roving spotlights. As he blinked, however, he assessed the situation clearly and saw with what volition the building moved, and with what irregularity it was lit. An air corps squadron of Corsairs swarmed, exploding little points of light only good for illuminating, briefly, the rocky contours of the monster as well as the path of its destruction—a straight line from the ocean cutting into the city.

Superman dove. He flew at the monster, coming in low, dodging the beast's dexterous tail which seemed to swish with a mind of its own. He spiraled up and around it, peppering its roughly-textured hide with eye-lasers. The precise shots to the large, wide feet did nothing to harm or even slow it—similar shots to its thighs, crotch, finned back and tiny clawed arms failed likewise. Judging from this cursory study of the monster's physiognomy, Superman quickly deduced there was no obvious weak spot. Not wanting the fight to drag out longer than need be, Superman pulled back his fist, just as he moved round to face the monster, to deliver a harder-than-usual blow, which, in his thinking would cripple if not kill it instantly.

The blow made no impact.

The monster in turn raised one of its short arms, bringing it down with enough force that it felled a stunned Superman, who crashed through the concrete below. The hero managed to lift himself only as high as all-fours before the monster buried him further into the pavement with a single, effortless step.

Nearly oblivious of his opponent, the monster looked forward, ready to continue its ravishing of the city. Before, though, its foot moved to take another step, it, the foot, became to rise, higher then higher, pushed from beneath, until the monster toppled over, crashing into two nearby buildings.

This won point brought back Superman's confidence. He watched, unsmiling and intent, as the monster rolled over to gain its footing again. Superman waited, floating low, ready to take it down again. Now, though, it lurched purposely toward Superman, charging at him with its jaws set wide. Unflinching, Superman bided his time, which was ripe only when the monster was close enough that he could send two eye-lasers down its throat—which he did.

The monster threw back its head. But where Superman expected a cry of pain, the monster remained eerily silent. Its head did not bounce back, but stayed tilted, aimed at the stars. Slowly a pulsating glow emanated from, first, the stalactites along its back, then in its mouth. The glow became a flash, at which point the monster lunged forward, spewing a steady stream of atomic breath, the force behind which pinned Superman down, at the same time melting several cars along the road and igniting an entire tenement building.

On his feet once more, Superman trailed the monster, seizing, at last, its swishing tail. The monster begun slowly turning its head to investigate when Superman, the monster's tail now draped over his shoulder, got the leverage he needed to hurl the monster backwards, back into the scattered rubble left in its wake.

Unlike before, Superman now did not wait for the monster to recover and gentlemanly challenge it face to face. Although much fatigued from his exertion, he hunted the monster, who, in turn, proved the more resilient, for it was back on its feet and pursuing Superman before he realized he was the quarry not the predator.

Their head-on confrontation lasted as long as their previous skirmishes. Superman extended his chest, putting all his power into his fist—power which found no release, for the monster had spun around swiftly, swatting Superman away like a fly before Superman could strike. He was thrown, landing face first into what he realized after searching from his recumbent position was the ruins of the Daily Planet building. He continued searching, this time for the woman whose voice had drawn him here.

He found her lying still amongst large pieces of torn stone, from which only her head, with its long cascade of black hair turned gray by all the dust and one hand seemingly reaching out for help, protruded.

Superman was arrested by the sight. It was a blow far more devastating than any the monster had inflected. He could not move, nor could he dare look at anything else if the volition to do so were granted him. Struggling, however, against such uselessness, Superman strained his ears, focusing all his superhuman hearing to one spot in the fallen woman's chest and heard, finally, the faint beating of her still-living heart! He pushed a woozy leg in front of the other—gained a few feet of ground—felt in his heart and saw in his imagination her rescue and his salvation…

The rumbling came first. The smaller rocks and dust vibrated, shaking into the cracks and off the edges of the larger rocks. Then came the crash, a shower of boulders the tanks threw up as they plowed through the rubble, crushing it along with the injured and the dead. Superman lost sight of Lois—the beating of her heat was heard no more.

Superman's anguished cry of "No!" gave the tanks' noise competition. It even jarred one, sending it off its course. As they moved on to exhaust their ammunition on the monster, the jarred tank carefully righting itself, Superman, as if insulted after his injury, flew after these, his teeth locked, his breath coming in irregular pants. He lifted one easily from the ground, tossing it at a second as the other's turret turned. They each toppled over. Frantic cries of "Mayday!" could be heard over their radios, with less formal pleas for help following.

Superman refused to hear these. He pounded at the armor of the tanks, which folded like cardboard beneath his attack. By the time both tanks were flattened, with anyone inside crushed to death, and with the third tank now laying on a steady, fruitless assault, Superman came to his senses somewhat, realizing what he had been doing. But now it was a matter of survival. He punched away one shell after the next, was prepared, when he reached the barrel, to twist it out of commission, but was balked in his progress by the unified bombardment of the Corsairs. There was a brilliant flash of fire and thick clouds of smoke in all shades of light and dark, and a fraction of a second in which all breath was held and not a single sound could have been heard.

Just then the roar of "Enough!" boomed, and from the center of the army's violence shot Superman. He flew to the tank like a bullet, hoisting it up over his head before any human had the chance to try and stop him. He took his cargo to the monster, passing the unknowing beast then circling back at it. Its dorsal spikes glowed—its mouth opened. Superman, moving faster than ever, nearly entered its mouth, penetrating the more tender flesh of its throat with the pointed end of the tank. The light from the monster's back faded. It roared mutedly, choking and throwing its head back. Superman used this to his advantage, rocking the beast off balance.

Made clumsy from the attack, the monster had to give in, and was lifted by a straining Superman, who carried it back through the city, back to the ocean, then plunged with it under the waves. He sunk with it farther and farther down into the ocean's depths, never slacking his speed—not even as the ocean floor came into view.

The shockwaves of that collision were felt keenly on land: precarious building remnants fell; anyone standing was tossed; gas lines, which had held during the monster's raid, were jostled then broke, resulting in fresh outbreaks of city-wide fire. Then, as the mounting waves the crash produced came inexorably toward the shore, the army watched as a slim figure in blue alone shot out of the darkness of the water and disappeared quietly from sight into the darkness of the sky.


	4. IV

Thick clouds moved swiftly through the Antarctic sky, painting shadows on the ice below in grey's full spectrum. Superman remained as motionless as his fortress, staring through its walls and hearing, without being moved, the distant crunch of ice against the iron prow of an incoming ship.

The military at long last arrived, the ice breaking coming to a dead stop some seventy five yards from the fortress and spewing forth its cargo of armed, white-camouflaged men. These effectively formed a parameter around the fortress, then waited. Through their ranks progressed General MacArthur, surrounded by four men, each practically touching shoulders with the general as he walked, and each aiming his rifle in a different direction. It was as the nucleus of this atom that General MacArthur entered Superman's domain.

"Superman," he announced, his nasally voice reverberating chaotically from icy pillar to icy pillar, "on behalf of the United States of America, I hereby place you under arrest for damage done to government property, the avoidable deaths of American civilians, and as a possible threat to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

Superman failed to even blink.

"However," continued the general, lifting the reflective goggles from his face, "knowing our debt to you for defending our country against attacks both domestic and foreign, the president is willing to enter a bargain with you."

Here MacArthur waved in, without looking back, a white-coated assistant chained to the briefcase he carried in his hand. "This," said the general, and on cue the case was clicked opened, its contents displayed, "is the Oxygen-destroyer, our most powerful weapon. It makes the hydrogen bomb look like a popgun."

Superman recalled the screaming victims of the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima—then imagined such a devastating sound amplified, which sent a shiver through his person, one he had difficulty hiding from his audience.

"It is the only thing our brain-trust believes will work on Godzilla," said the general. "That is our monster," he continued in response to Superman's questioning gaze. "According to our units in Japan, we are up against a mythical creature used to human sacrifice and the waters of the Pacific. What it's doing off the coast of Metropolis, and how it became impervious to all known firepower, is anybody's call. But that," he motioned to the Oxygen-destroyer, "will kill anything that's alive.

"Now, because of our—I hate to admit it!—impotence against this thing, and your invulnerability, you really are the only one who can win this for us." No one spoke as MacArthur took an even breath.

"If you accept this deal, we have a few guideline that must be followed—to a tee! First, the Oxygen-destroyer must be used at point blank range. It has the force to get the job done from anywhere, but we need to make sure it hits the target. Secondly, and this is _vital_, it must be used underwater. We can afford to lose whatever life there is in the ocean—but a land detonation would be, well, biblical." MacArthur paused, during which time he failed to meet Superman's eyes again, the latter looking away throughout the general's explanations.

"Son," he said, his voice delicate, "don't make me bring you back in chains. We need a Superman now more than ever."

Superman turned his face blankly toward General MacArthur's, saw himself, with his wide, contemplative eyes and hard-set jaw in the general's goggles, now replaced over his eyes, then looked down at the case.


	5. V

The surface light faded quickly once Superman dove beneath the waves. A thick, black lightlessness seemed to bubble up from the depths of the ocean. The further he traveled, the Oxygen-destroyer pinned firmly to his side, the greater, more violently, the sea floor was torn and piled up. Each new mound, more chaotically stacked than the last, would do nicely as an end, but there was still more.

Flung rock, newly exposed to the assimilating sea, eventually gave way to darker, equally rough ridges which lead to sharp spikes walking up the back of the comatose Godzilla. It appeared slumped and lifeless, so much so that Superman had the sudden urge to leave without using the Oxygen-destroyer after all—but quickly corrected such a misleading urge.

The swishes of bubbles he made swimming vigorously before Godzilla's motionless face did nothing to wake the monster. Superman started in, next, to strike its cheeks, its lips, and then only managed to shake loose its jaw. It was in this gaping hole that Superman finally submitted a long blast from his eyes, which he did not let up until Godzilla's mouth glowed, not red with his assault but white with its retaliation.

An atomic blast cut through rock and water, reached the sky, and was followed by a primeval roar—both of which were registered clearly on land.

Some premature celebration and congratulations were heard, thinking the roar was Godzilla's last gasp. Still, critical questions were asked by more decorated officers—asking as to whether or not Superman had succeeded. All, though, would soon be answered, not through the army's Intel but with…

Deep, resonating footsteps—they thudded slowly, meticulously—they were the drum of doom rattling life on dry land.

The army had deployed tanks and planes by the time Godzilla was sighted—a barrage of bullets met its domed head before the ocean's surface was completely broken. This assault had the exact effect as before—nor did this deter a single solider from unloading whatever rounds were at his disposal. It was reaction—an instinctual one, not a reasonable one—in the face of annihilation. Tanks were melted; planes downed; buildings demolished; human lives lost. Godzilla had forged another path, scarring destruction deeper into the city's face before Superman showed up on the army's radar. Now questions were spat into radios, questions pertaining the efficacy of the Oxygen-destroyer; the efficacy of its activator; the hero's motives.

Superman remained airborne, high and aloof. He watched the increasing ruination stoically. Finally, at an arbitrary point, he brought the Oxygen-destroyer up to chest height and paused with it there. This sent a shock wave of panic through the army's headquarters. Orders were shouted for a launching—the launching of a nuclear weapon set up for such a contingency as this. Bureaucracy, however, proved much slower than the Oxygen-destroyer. Wave upon wave of suffocation erupted from the bisected cones in the device's center. Superman continued taking in the dissolving of life, all that breathed on dry land, as a child would witnessing the extermination of insects.

The power of the Oxygen-destroyer was sensed by Godzilla, who turned, at first slowly, suspiciously, toward Superman and his weapon before charging at the hero with all of its might. It moved quicker than Superman had seen it move before. It reached him in seconds, clamping its jaws around him as a prison. Darkness surrounded Superman for mere seconds, for no sooner had Godzilla caught him in his mouth than the Oxygen-destroyer blasted the flesh from the monster's bones. Its enormous skeleton was left floating midair a moment. It then followed the flesh and was soon carried away by a wind as powder.

Voices came to Superman's hearing: cries of terror as someone witnessed his family's demise before he too became a victim of the Oxygen-destroyer; cries of horror as another watched his skin fly with the wind effectively, painlessly. Most, though, were taken completely by surprise, making no noise whatsoever. It was a relatively quiet affair, which only grew quieter as the waves of dead air spread. It took only a few minutes before every voice on the planet was subdued—at which point, Superman descended, leaving behind the clouded sky, passing the icy gleams of glass windows, landing in a seated position where he fell into something of a contented trance while ash, as light as flakes of snow, steadily fell over him and him alone.


End file.
